Sincerely, Yours
by Behind These Mako Eyes
Summary: Previously a singular idea, this will now become a series of one-shots. If they become two-shots or more, it will be stated as such.


A/N: Hello all! Please bear with my inaccuracies, my grammatical or spelling errors. all my fics are written by me alone. I don't own anything akin to Outlander, but I'd love to get my hands on a certain Mr. Fraser ;) enjoy! 

Theme: Modern day, Jamie goes through the stones instead. Day 1

**June 12th, 2020**

I woke to the scent of mud and moss and grass, something I'd always been accustomed to in the highlands. But this odor was contaminated by something I determined to be unearthly, my nose turned up at the stench. I looked around once I'd mustered the courage to sit up properly, frowning at the scenery as I took it in. The guardian trees that had surrounded the formation were gone, instead a small stone circle as far as I could see lined the perimeter. Further from my place of origin, I could see gray-black paths with staggered yellow lines that wound around hills and unfamiliar tree lines.

**Where the hell am I?**

I stood to my full height, stopping slightly again to brush the drying muck and mud from my coat and kilt. Once satisfied, I surveyed the area again, squinting at the sight of an odd wagon about a quarter of a mile away. I'd never seen anything like it and I stared in awe, left hand coming to rest on the hilt of my broadsword as it had been doing since I'd joined Dougal's party.

A rush of memories flooded my brain and a burning sensation from my right shoulder reminded me of the gunshot wound I'd suffered from a blasted Redcoat. I laughed humorlessly at myself, clutching the shoulder and finding my forgetfulness rather ridiculous.

"Are you alright..?" An English voice startled me, a dainty white woman emerging fully from the shiny blue wagon about thirty feet away was the owner of said voice.

She was small and slim, a cascade of wild chestnut curls blowing about in the light breeze, skin a lovely shade of ivory. Her brows were defined, as well as her worried golden eyes. The little woman seemed harmless, but her clothing was the anomaly

Where was the rest of it? I'd seen harlots with more modesty.

She wore a simple mint green dress, slim straps left her shoulders bare and small brown buttons kept the garment closed around her. The material ended just above her knees, leaving so much of her exposed to myself and the elements. Even her dainty feet were exposed with a thong of matter I'd never seen before.

She paused, repeating her question a bit slower.

"Aye," I finally told her, unsure of what she or her wagon may hold.

"You're bleeding," she gasped, "you're hurt." The lithe woman hurriedly opened the back door to her contraption, pulling out a metal green box and rushing me.

I stood my ground, unsheathing my blade before she came too close.

"What on earth are you doing?!"

"I could ask ye the same."

"I'm going to take a look at your shoulder," she quipped, as though it were obvious, "I'm a nurse, I have been for six years."

I allowed her to come near, rehoming my blade to it's sheath at my waist. She opened and removed my coat, adeptly unbuttoned my shirt, pushing the linen away from the burning injury on my shoulder. A sympathetic gasp left her lips, slim fingers covering them in shock.

"What were you shot with?"

"I do recall it being a pistol," I returned, reaching down to pull my own from a large satchel I carried on my belt, "like this, ye ken?"

She did not have something to say at the sight, her brows knitting together to paint a picture of befuddlement. The English woman placed her box on the grass, a small square of white between her fingers slowly unfolded to reveal a scrap of cloth the size of my hand. I stood still as she began to dab the surprisingly wet and cool square to my injury, but my stillness did not hold.

"Ach!" I yelped, jerking away, "that burns, what're ye doin'?!"

"Sanitizing your wound," she answered with a laugh, her features pinching prettily with her giggles. I did not understand, my head tilting to one side, much like an inquisitive hound. "Cleaning it." Came her secondary answer when she'd realized I didn't comprehend.

"Why?"

"To prevent the spread of infection," she answered, her eyes still curious when they regarded me. She placed the bloodied square into a small clear bag she'd conjured from her box, instead a small white roll replaced it. She stood to her full height, which was nearly two heads shorter than me, and stuck out a dainty hand to me. "My name is Claire Beauchamp, it's lovely to meet you."

"James MacTavish," I lied, unsure of Claire's allegiance, but I took her single hand between both of mine, "I'd like to thank ye for tending to me."

"You're quite welcome," she insisted, gracing me with that dazzling smile. "I have some questions for you."

Claire bent down at her box, thinking better to swap out her white roll in exchange for a hooked needle and a black thread. She gestured for me to sit down beside her and I obliged, removing my shirt fully.

"Aye," I regarded her, "as I have for ye."

"Why are you dressed like that?"

"Could ask ye the same thing," I chuckled in response, watching her take another white square to her hooked needle. She huffed at me, fingers expertly working her thread through the eye of the needle.

"It's 2020," she replied, "I can wear what I please."

**2020? Did she mean the year, 2020?**

"...aye, ye can, lass," I stumbled, unsure of much of anything now.

"You look like an eighteenth century highlander," she pressed, "are you a part of a re-enactment group?"

**I am an eighteenth century highlander...**

"Aye," I lied again, watching her shift closer to the wound on my shoulder. Her eyes met mine in question and I gave her a stiff nod.

"I'm sorry this will hurt," she murmured, beginning her task of seeing the flesh together again. I did my best to remain rigid, although the entrance and exit of the needle made me wince. "How did you get here?"

"I havena a clue," I told her honestly, turning my gaze to the tallest stone. I realized that had been the wrong thing to admit, the air between us growing intolerably tense.

"...you're not really part of a re-enactment group, are you?"

I faced her again, scanning her innocent face for deception. Long moments passed between us and I answered after she shivered in a sudden gust.

"Yer right, I'm no'," I relented, "...but I am a Scot, make no mistake about that."

Claire completed her project on my injury, now beginning to wrap a soft cloth around me. Her hands were knowing and swift as she wound it repeatedly, only ceasing when she was satisfied by her handiwork.

"Okay, Mr. MacTavish," she continued, "can you explain your wardrobe honestly?"

"They're what I wear daily," I told her, "'tis customary for a clansmen of my rank, wi' clan Mackenzie."

"..you're saying that you're..you're what..?"

"I'll tell ye the year I was born," I promised her, "and I'm no witch, I wasna attempting to find myself here...I was born on the first of May, in the year 1721."

Claire sputtered for a moment, her own eyes of amber searching my face for something. Deception? Honesty? Madness?

"You can't be serious," she guffawed, beginning to laugh, "and I'm the queen of England!"

"I'm no' lyin', Sassenach!"

Claire's crowing laughter ceased at my irritable snap, her eyes softening around my expression of desperation. I wanted to leave here, go back to Castle Leoch and never stray from it again.

"I can see that you're telling me the truth," she said gently, her small hand coming to rest on mine, "I'm sorry I laughed, it's quite...far-fetched."

"I ken," I sighed, "it is rather mad, but I'm no liar. I touched the stone and 'twas here that I awoke."

"Well, Mr. MacTavish..." she began offhandedly, "I've sewn your wound closed, but it's nothing that a hospital could do for you."

"I thank ye, Claire," I bowed my head in appreciation, "I ought to be getting back."

She smiled at me softly, helping me pull my shirt back on. Claire knelt between my legs, buttoning the fabric methodically. I began to pat the ground in search of my coat before a Scottish voice barked at the two of us.

"What're ye doing?!" A portly older man stomped toward us with a scowl on his face. Claire tore herself away from me, whirling to face him. "Ye young fools! 'Tis a sacred place and ye be mucking about indecently!"

"I believe there's been a misunderstanding," Claire tried immediately, hopping to her feet. She opened her mouth to protest, but the older Scot was having none of it.

"Gather yerselves and go on home, Sassenach," he growled, standing his ground firmly, turning his furious brown gaze on me next, "ye should be ashamed, lad!"

Claire and I looked to one another in bewilderment, her hand reaching out for mine to help me up after she'd seemingly made up her mind. I stood, not taking much of her support.

"We're terribly sorry, sir," she offered, although she seemed to be without remorse, "we'll take our leave...right, James?"

"Aye," I responded succinctly, standing beside her, frowning deeply at the rude man across from us, "apologies, sir."

The groundskeeper fixed his sour sneer on us while I followed Claire to the odd contraption she'd rode in upon. I was left flabbergasted again, staring at her in hopes of an answer.

"Pull the handle," she instructed quietly, tipping her head down to direct my attention. She demonstrated by pulling on her own, the entire panel opening to her with a click. "On the other side."

I obeyed, pulling the handle on the side opposite to her. The door opened and I watched her slide into a seat, so I'd followed suit. I mirrored her actions, closing the door and reaching back to pull a strap over my chest.

"What do ye call this thing, Sassenach?"

"An automobile," Claire answered as she took a small tool and inserted it to the right of a wheel in front of her, the vessel quietly rumbling to life. I was amazed, watching the lights turn on and I could hear sounds from all around.

"It's actually a Ford Escape, if you'd like to know the make and model," she prattled on, "I had to try an American car just once."

"I dinna understand," I said, still in wonder, "what do these do?"

"They're essentially a replacement for horses," Claire offered to give me a comparison, reaching down to grab a knob before us and pull it down to illuminate the letter R.

The Escape gave a gentle lurch, making me whip my head to and fro to watch the scenery shift. Claire's laugh settled me, but I couldn't help but stare out the glass before us.

"I guess we'll have to go back to the inn," she voiced after moving the lever again, the letter D now lit up a soft green, "get you cleaned up and fed before we come back."

The automobile jerked softly and we began to move forward now. We were on the dark path, Claire's Ford on the left side of the dashed yellow line in the middle of the road.

"We're coming up on the town after the bend," she informed, "I hope this isn't too jarring for you."

"'Tis," I said with a short chuckle, "I canna believe how different it all looks, I've no' seen a horse yet, but I've seen two different types of automobiles."

"They're how we get from place to place now, but we even use them for fun."

"How?"

"Listen to music and drive without a destination," she beamed, reaching to her right to fiddle with a round knob. The music changed entirely from a gentle plucking, weepingly slow tune into a heavy cacophony of beats and rhymes.

"What on earth is this, Sassenach?"

"My guilty pleasure," she laughed, "American music."

"Tis certainly odd."

_"...Shawty wanna thug, bottles in the club. Shawty wanna hump, you know I'd like to touch ya lovely lumps.."_

"Who's Shawty?"

Claire cackled at me, fixing her eyes back on the stretch before her.

"Shawty is slang for a woman," she informed with mirth, reaching to adjust another knob. The volume increased, startling me with the vibrations shaking the vehicle. Claire tried to sing along, sounding so off-key but so very adorable.

_"I say he so sweet, she wanna lick the rapper...so I let her lick the rapper!"_

"Tis no' verra...appropriate," I offered my thoughts at the conclusion of the song, "no' for a lass."

"Maybe not where you're from," she pointed out, "today, women have many more freedoms."

"Aye, I've noticed as much," I replied with a chuckle, turning my head to look out the window at the trees, which were no more than a blur at this incredible speed.

_"You're way too beautiful girl, that's why it'll never work. You had me suicidal, suicidal when you say it's over. Damn all these beautiful girls, they only wanna do your dirt. They'll have you suicidal, suicidal when they say it's over."_

Claire's singing in time with the next track was smoother, leaving me to smile as she belted to her heart's content. Only twenty five minutes passed before the car began to approach a lot, slowing down and stopping two spaces away from another vastly different automobile.

"I'll thank ye for the show," I told her with a laugh, mirroring her action in unbuckling the strap over my front, "'twas cute."

"You'll have an encore tomorrow when I return you to Craigh na Dun," she promised, stepping out of the Escape, "I'll play you some rock, a little variety."

I stepped out of the vehicle, surveying the area. There were many tall brick buildings, other structures made from materials that I'd lever lain eyes on before. Any people in the area seemed to take notice of me, making me feel more an outsider than I'd ever felt.

**I do suppose they're no' wearin' kilts or gowns.**

"Come along, James," Claire called to me from the front door of the inn, "you could use a shower, I'll order room service for the evening."

I obeyed, trailing no more than a few feet behind the Englishwoman as she guided me past the lobby desk. An older woman smiled kindly at her, the look becoming baffled when her wrinkled blue eyes landed on my attire. Claire hurried me along my grasping my hand, tugging me down a hallway and stopping at a door numbered 6C. She released me to fumble around with a set of small keys, pressing one into the bolt to unlock the door.

"Welcome," she teased, gesturing with one hand to enter the room. I did and was no longer surprised at every new thing I saw, but curious.

It was quite spacious, the floor covered in a plush material that made me think of a rug, the walls seemed to be painted with a repetitive floral design. The furniture matched; the bed, desk, chair, and end tables all a dark cherrywood I'd found lovely.

"Let me show you how to use the shower," Claire's soft offer brought me from my thoughts, "I'm sure you've never seen one?"

"Yer right, Sassenach," I affirmed with a light smile, "I havena heard of a shower until today."

We both entered the bathroom, Claire pulling back a curtain to reveal a large tub with knobs and a spigot, a small oddly-shaped club was attached to the wall by a tube. I touched the tub, curious about what it was made of and what kept it shiny.

"The right knob is cold, the left is hot," she started, leaning down to turn both knobs to the left at the same time. Water immediately rushed down from the faucet, splashing the bottom of the tub. "Feel the water, make sure the temperature is to your liking."

I stooped and let my palm cup the water from its source, yelping and yanking it back.

"Yer gonna burn my skin off wi' it being this hot, Sassenach!"

"Funny," she giggled, "I run my showers quite a bit hotter, but I'll adjust it."

I didn't know what was funny about burning my palm, but sighed in relief when she pulled my hand under a rush of cold water. It was soothing and more of what I'd been accustomed to.

"Tell me when," Claire's gentle order made me smile, leaving my hand in place while she fiddled with the temperature.

"Aye, like this," I told her when I found it best.

She pulled away and I followed, watching her bend again and pull a small metal tab on the top of the faucet. The rush was gone and in its place a controlled rain shower from what I'd thought was a club.

"Ye found a way to make it rain when ye please," I breathed incredulously, reaching in again to feel the water, "at whatever degree ye need, amazing."

"I'll leave you to bathe in peace," Claire replied sweetly, pointing to fluffy white rectangles of fabric that hung from a shiny metal rack, "the towels are just there."

"Thank ye."

"You're most welcome, Mr. MacTavish," she curtsied, albeit incorrectly, and turned to leave the room.

"Claire," I couldn't stop the tumble of her name from my lips, "please, call me Jamie, ye ken me weel enough now, lass."

The smile she left me with took my breath away, thankful that she closed the door to give me time for myself. I shed my coat, kilt and bloodied shirt, stepping into the spray and sighing at just how luxurious it felt.

**I'll be back home where I belong tomorrow.**


End file.
